


Round Three

by countessofbiscuit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e04 Sanctuary, Friends With Benefits, Helpful Handsies, Joshing, Lots of Chaotic Bi Energy, Multi, Pining, get a grip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: When you’re coming apart at the seams just looking at the local beauty, it’s time to light up some bad guys with a friend—and maybe let that friend lend a firm hand and whisper sweet nothings, too.
Relationships: Cara Dune/Omera (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian), The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 272





	Round Three

“Does it have X-ray vision?” 

Startled, he turned to find Dune in his earcap. Wraparound sensors, and he still hadn’t noticed her approach. Sorgan was making him sloppy. “What?”

“That thing”—she gestured loudly at his head—“‘Cause the way you stare at her … it might make a girl wonder.” 

He’d been packing disruptor cartridges: a fiddly business, and one that couldn’t afford distraction. But Omera had just hauled herself out of a pond for the fifteenth time that day, and for the fifteenth time he found himself dry-mouthed and dumb, unable to look away from the soggy grip of the dress around her thighs. 

“I was reading the Guild newsfeed,” he lied. “It said your bounty just doubled.” 

Dune smirked, knowingly. “Uh-huh.” 

She was well into her spotchka later that evening, slurring sentences if not yet words, as they relaxed in the raiders’ obliterated camp. She’d tried their glowing booze, hated it, and decided they should use it to burn what bodies remained. Taking out that walker had been satisfying as hell, but between the two of them, there was enough juice left simmering in the pot to wipe out a platoon; cut open, they'd have bled adrenaline. 

The village victory fete had been … nice. He and the kid had cleaned off a pile of shrimpsticks in the shrouded treeline and watched Omera dance with her daughter in the moonlight. So maybe more than nice. 

But Dune craved something more bare-knuckled, kinetic, and maybe a little oafish. He followed her back into the woods, knowing he’d sleep better too with all the skugs slotted. 

They’d banged in and mopped up in under an hour, stripping the dead clean. The villagers could sift it all for valuables in the morning; if it turned their stomachs, they shouldn’t have begged help from mercenaries. 

“Thirsty work,” Dune said, holding out her flask after he pulled the trousers off one. He declined and she knocked back the rest with a wink. 

He collapsed against a log when they’d finished, allowed himself to breathe, and thought about the kid. Thought about his life. About how warming himself in front of this blue bonfire of bodies next to a shocktrooper at large was not even the second most remarkable thing to happen to him in these past weeks.

“Can I ask you something?” Dune said, maybe feeling equally philosophical now that she’d started on a stolen spotchka cask they’d found.

“Sure.” 

“How do you fuck, if—”

“Changed my mind. No questions.” 

She closed the gap in the dirt, scooting up against him and throwing one cozy arm around his shoulder. “No, no take-backs, I have to know how this works. Do you ... you say it never comes off unless you’re alone, but _come on._ In the sack? Really? You _never_ eat besh?!”

His helmet fans kicked in, responding to his agitated vital signs, which only made his face warmer still. “Please stop.” 

Dune jabbed one arm in the direction of the village, and sloshed spotchka on his lap with the other. “She’s a looker. And—you—are— _looking._ If you don’t make a move,” she declared, stabbing his karta with her index finger, “I will.” 

“What? No. You can’t—”

“Have you done it already?”

“What?”

“Have you fucked her already?”

“No. Of course not.” Stars, he was getting hard. Just the idea—the _dream_ —given voice, and he was thickening uncomfortably between his crossed legs. Impaired or not, Dune would notice if he shifted now. 

“Oh. Yes. Of course. _Obviously_ not. Such a silly question! Of so honorable a man!” She drew back and threw her empty flagon into the flames, like his sexual frustration was stinging her, too. “But you want to. So gird up, Mando man! _Do it!_ ” 

Then the slab of warm, broad woman was back, pressing along his exposed side, where the beskar didn’t reach. He couldn’t really move, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Intimacy was a heady thing. He’d long forgotten how much. 

Dune dropped her chin onto his pauldron. His display showed her smiling wickedly. “I bet she’s into it, you know,” she whispered. “The helmet. Shoots like she’s seen some bucketheads in her time. And you’re _polite!_ A nice one! Making you moan would be a fuckin’ power fantasy!”

“I’m about to be very not nice if you don’t cut this out.” 

“She had you marked and tagged the minute you hovered into view. Wasn’t anything you could do about it.” Dune slapped a hand onto his thigh plate, hard. “Shocksister secret: ridged for integrity _and_ for pleasure. And that pretty young widow is revving to ride.”

He really should invest in a voice modifier. This vocalizer gave all the creaks in his voice away when he repeated that she should stop. His cock throbbed against the gathers of his flightsuit. Nothing would feel better now than letting his legs fall open and calling Omera’s smile—Omera’s legs—Omera’s hands to mind… 

But he wasn't alive today because he couldn't resist a rub.

“You could leave everything on,” Dune cooed, patting his spaulder affectionately. “If that’s 'the way,' I’m sure she’d make it work.” 

It wasn’t necessarily The Way … just all he’d ever known. He’d never had a Mandalorian partner, and what partners he’d had could be counted on one hand. Doing it barefaced now—he wasn’t sure his body would answer to the discomfort. Even to feel Omera’s full lips against his ear.

Dune’s hand found its way to the crease of his hip. “You could stroll back there tonight,” she said, “gleaming and god-like, sit her on your lap, and she’d polish you right up.” 

His cock jumped. And he felt himself dribble a little at the tame contact with the canvas. “No,” he said, firmly. He had to come clean before she got the wrong idea and his arousal spoke for him. 

“No, _what?_ ”

“I—I don’t want to do that to her. I’m leaving. It’d be … cheap. Something might happen.” He’d already be asking the galaxy to consign the kid to Omera’s care. He wouldn’t chance leaving another in her belly.

Dune’s face stretched many kinds of ways before she nodded at no one in particular, like she was coming around to an idea. “Well, since you’re helplessly noble…” She peeled the glove off one hand and held out her palm. “Give me your dick.” 

He stared down at her, the long nose of Mandalorian judgement. 

She stared back. “You need this. Just lie back, and think of that sweet woman who's babysitting for you."

No, Omera was too beautiful; he wouldn’t remember every curve right, and it’d throw the whole thing off. “I could never do her justice.” 

“Spare me the fucking snogwash, you repressed tinhead. Hand it over.” 

She waggled her bare fingers impatiently, and suddenly he remembered how much he liked Dune, too. Really liked her. All heft and heart, the kind that made you feel big just looking at her. The kind that wiped the floor with Imps one minute, and then turned around to lift kids onto her shoulders so they could reach the ripest dewberries. A holo of Dune belonged in the Mando’a-Basic dictionary next to _kandosii._ Having her goad him on like this—it didn’t feel so wrong… 

What the hell. 

He worked himself free, one-handed and blank-headed so he didn’t accidentally pop off, only to double over like a stuck gorg at the strength of Dune’s grip. His strained groan made her laugh, belly-deep but ringing. 

“You think this feels good? I’m a dry, knobbly substitute. Her hands would be soft—maybe a little pruny, but soft like … fuck, I don’t know. Shrooms.”

He canted his helmet at her. _“Shrooms,”_ he repeated. 

“Look, I said what I said. And you know what”—she hacked a wad of spit into her palm and squeegeed his shaft with gusto—“she’d be slick like ‘em too.” 

Woozy, he let his helmet clunk back against the log. Dune’s fingers spanned his length, from his root to his hood, and she thumbed him with increasing pressure. It was like he’d sprung a leak at the novelty of a stranger’s touch. The smacking of wet skin and the crackling of burning wood filled his head. 

“Imagine sliding yourself inside her—fingers first, since you won’t use your mouth,” she teased. “She’d be creaming already, just looking at you. But good spacers and good lovers always check the lubricant.” 

He grabbed Dune's wrist.

“Too much?” she asked. 

“Too fast,” he croaked, manually resetting her pace. Her powerful arm was pistoning like she was trying to churn tibanna. She had her other bicep wrapped around his neck, drawing their heads together in a tense embrace. 

“That’s the spirit. Enjoy yourself. And tell me what you love about Omera.” 

That was easy. “Her hair,” he panted. He wanted to gather it up in his hands and bury his face in Omera’s fragrance, like shimmersilk on his cheek. 

Dune threaded her fingers low into his curly underbrush and squeezed his tight sack. “Gods, _yes._ The whole black forest of it. Would you take the helmet off, to let it fall around your ears as she fucked you?”

“Nnngh” was all he could manage. 

“And her tits!” Dune said, dragging his hood over his sensitive head, pumping him with renewed speed. “Tell me you wouldn’t take it off to suck those fat birds, you liar.”

Speech was a foreign thing now, beyond him totally. He understood only the slip of hot skin, the ball of dense pleasure under his navel, and how perfect Omera’s pebbled nipples had looked beneath her white dress this morning, when she burped and bounced the kid on her knee.

The memory of her beauty overcame him. He had just time enough to jerk Dune’s hand away before he emptied himself with a shaky moan, mind and body melting into the crease of Omera’s breasts. 

“Thanks for that, I guess, but my virtue is well past soiled,” came Dune’s voice, from somewhere unimportant. 

He felt her wick the spunk from his tender tip and tuck him back into his suit as he lay there panting, unbothered and bleary. “Beskar’s easy to clean,” he mumbled. 

“I hope so. Sithspit, you’re a mess." She bobbed over his chest, angling for better light from the bonfire. "Don’t let yourself get clogged up like that again. It's not healthy and life’s too short. Especially in your line of work.”

“Sure.” Whatever she said; whatever she wanted—at least until the endorphins wore off. 

Dune spent a few minutes freeing his cloak from underneath his limp and unyielding carcass, and arranging it into an acceptable ratio of padding to blanket. She folded herself against him, no doubt feeling the chill of booze-dried blood. 

“You’ll think about Omera, yeah?” she said. 

Omera accounted for half his thoughts lately—almost as much as the kid. That didn’t leave much brain in the day for thinking about resupply channels, the best planet for cheap fuel, and how the hell he was going to make good with the Guild. But he’d happily think about her some more, just then, while his pleasure turned gluey on his plates. “Sure.”

“‘Cause you’ve almost earned someone so nice.” Dune jostled his shoulder. “Almost.” 

“That’s almost thoughtful of you.”

“And because I’m hoping she’ll want a third—someone who can _eat_ —and you’ll comm me first."

He sighed bodily, but jostled her back in acknowledgement. So this is what it felt like, falling into the give-and-take of easy friendship. “Do you—uhh … are you good?” he asked with a squeeze to her knee. It felt only right to offer. If he fumbled in her folds, she’d probably just laugh and improve his technique, to the enjoyment of them both.

Dune yawned. “Ask me again in the morning." She reached for the pulse rifle, settled it across their legs, and stilled at last. “We make a good team, Mando.”

He nodded. “Yeah. We do.” 

Though her snores would have kept a gundark at bay, he kept watch until the haze of the bonfire gave way to the first deep blue of morning rising through the trees, turning over an old saying in his mind. 

_Home is where you lay your helmet._


End file.
